CHAPTER XIII

Rudra, as Tom was known to his mates on SlashAndGash.org, had decided to home from work today. After having ironed out the last global constraint violation, he looked around. Darkness, the kind he liked; darkness, but for the light coming from his screen. The screen of his new PowerRegister – that work of art, tear-drop shaped. It came in different feels, but he had found an instant liking for the Bathtub Blues. Darkness – the kind that sometimes gives you nostalgic flashbacks; a violent feeling of wanting to be back; a craving for the old. “I could try the thought-to-text feature,” he thought. He made a mental list of people he hadn’t paged in a while. And as he refined his list, mail windows opened and closed. He opened his drawer and pulled out a bottle of triple distilled arrack, even as he remembered exactly why he hadn’t bothered pinging these people. “Oh well,” he sighed, as he poured himself a strong one – as if he could pour it any other way. “Macha, it’s been a while…” He topped up his glass and downed it, to cleanse his mind after having thought of that bastard. Its not that bad, he won’t have to mail him for a while now. The words for the next one took a little while longer. “Hiya, where have you been?” The cursor blinked. He took another sip. “It’s the same old same here.” He sipped, the cursor blinked a little while longer. “Send message without substance?” the dialog box asked. “Yes of course you dimwit” he said, and thought. It just got harder with every glass, but the photograph of him on holiday on the cubicle wall did look better. “Man, that bitch sure was something,” he said out loud, as he looked at the warped image through the bottle. His stomach churned, partly because of the drink and partly because of the loneliness that had come over him. He had just sent out more mails than he had over the last three forthnights (Reader Note 3: A “forthnight” is a period of time lasting two earth-weeks followed by one night of heavy drinking). “I’m sure there is something about alcohol-soaked synapses that prevents thinking,” he thought, as he Googled the MetaMedLine database. Naada. “Mmm… someone must patent that,” he thought. Little did he know that his grandchildren, and their great-grandchildren after that, would have to pay Value Reduced Tax over bar-counters far, far away for this one thought of his. Two days later, his suitably inebriated lawyer decided to file for the patent. – V.V.